Monday, May 18, 2009

Bits and Pieces

Hey, that was the title of a column in Hustler...if it was good enough for a 12 year old lad trying to find his way in a strange new world of full-spread beaver shots and incredibly racist cartoons, it's good enough for you.

I saw The Wrestler, finally. Shit, that was really, really good. How Mickey Rourke didn't get the Oscar can only be attributed to the Gay Conspiracy, or the fact that he would undoubtedly sully the Academy's good name by fake fighting Chris Jericho.

I recall a friend I had a s a kid telling me that Sean Penn always looked like he was about to sneeze, which was hilarious. And accurate.

Anyway, The parallels of a wrestler and a stripper as both being used up whores abusing their bodies to sell fantasy to fat, disgusting virgins while secretly aching to leave DA BIZNESS was awesome and pathetic and beautiful. Speaking of fat, gross virgins, I could have lived without seeing Paul Sisnowski (SHOOT NAMES) on my TV screen on a Sunday night. Man, fuck you, you fucking slob. I guess I should count myself lucky that the camera avoided Jim Fannin's smug, vaugely Asian, lard-stuffed fat fucking visage during the CZW segments of the movie.

So yeah, my point is that The Wrestler is some poignant, great shit. If you somehow avoided seeing it longer than I did, check it out, brother. Also, you get to see Marissa Tomei's RUUUUUUUDE TITTAYS.

All this talk of aging attention whores looking for a comeback leads me to...

Ric Flair wants to wrestle again. Yeah, and the sun sets in the west. This is the least shocking wrestling story of the year. Christ, how pathetic. The guy is leaving frantic voicemails on Johnny Ace's machine offering to come out of retirement and wrestle again, like Marissa Tomei's aging stripper pathetically angling for some college mooks to let her rub her ginch on them for a few bucks. Unreal. This old fucker is seriously delusional. He's been quoted as saying that he feels better than he did when he retired. Well yeah, a year off will do that for you. Especially a year off without any kind of drug testing. Here's a better idea, Naitch: work on your family and maybe try to help the kid you were never around for get off smack. DO YOU EVEN KNOW HIS BIRTHDAYYYYYY? Fuck, man, fuck.

Nobody is updating this site. After the loss of Mike Dikk to real, gainful employment, it's been pretty much the Andrewbulous show. I'll do what I can, but come on dudes, little help here.

Dave Meltzer shoots on Scott Keith. Regarding the "Fall of WCW" DVD, America's preeminent fake fighting scribe wrote, "Their knowledge of WCW history appeared to be scouring the Internet and reading Scott Keith-level historical material." Sure, picking on Scooter is as easy as punching a retarded kid (actually, that's not much of a metaphor, since Netcop does look a little downsy), but it's still pretty fucking funny. Meltzer, since getting some Fuck You Money from yahoo, just don't give a fuck. It's tremendous. Next, he'll drive to Keith's house and ass fuck that beast that appears to be growing out of SK's shoulder, while Scott weeps. And masturbates. While weeping.

Raw not really worth watching. Damn, Smackdown, Superstars, and ECW all had some great wrestling last week. Raw has been shit for a while, and you might as well get to bed early for work the next day like I did. Unless you're like the aforementioned Green Lantern Fan or 90% of the people who watch this garbage and don't have a job and your plans for tomorrow are to waddle down to Gamestop and hit BK or Hardee's for a Monster Thickburger (hi Dean!) on the way home or whatever.

Anyway, thanks for reading, my dudes. That's all for right now. So long from The Sunshine State. More later, maybe.

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6-3-94 Manifesto

In the days of ancient Rome men tried to best each other physically by imposing their will on one other. Sometimes this lead to the death of one of the competitors. Sometimes it lead to a friendship or brotherhood bond being formed. More often than not it ended with the two dudes fucking the shit out of each other. Faggotry and wrestling have long had a mutually parasitic relationship. Where faggotry is afoot wrestling cannot be far behind. Where there is wrestling you can rest assured that faggotry is nearby, jerking off furiously. This is the way it has always been and the way it shall always be. Though men have tried to change this dynamic throughout the ages they have all failed. Spandex, pyrotechnics, midgets, fake tits and sports entertainment cannot mask the overwhelming scent of gay that always accompanies wrestling. You can always be certain of these three things: The sun always rises in the morning, politicians always lie and wrestling will always be gay as fuck. We are merely observers; scribes charged with the duty of recording, analyzing and mocking this faggotry. These are our words.